


On Deadline

by ConvivialCamera



Category: Outlander & Related Fandoms, Outlander (TV), Outlander Series - Diana Gabaldon
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Journalism, Newspapers, Photography
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-24
Updated: 2018-12-30
Packaged: 2019-03-09 02:26:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 13
Words: 17,381
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13471728
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ConvivialCamera/pseuds/ConvivialCamera
Summary: War photographer Claire Beauchamp is looking for the quiet life. She doesn't find it at the Leoch Times, a daily newspaper run by the MacKenzie family, where she meets new reporter Jamie Fraser.





	1. News in Brief I

_The Leoch Times, Feb. 5, 2016_

#### Police: Leoch man broke into Fort William, stole equipment

LEOCH — A man is accused of breaking into the garrison at Fort William in the early hours of Thursday, Feb. 4 and stealing $2,500 worth of computer equipment and firearms, police said.

Alexander W. R. MacGregor, 20, of 71 First St., Leoch, has been charged with first-degree robbery and second-degree assault, both felonies. He also faces charges of third-degree criminal trespass and resisting arrest, both misdemeanors.

Police said MacGregor was discovered by garrison personnel while escaping through the main gate carrying two laptops and a pistol belonging to an officer.

MacGregor was arraigned in Leoch City Court and sent to Leoch County Jail in lieu of $20,000 bond.

—30—

_The Leoch Times, Dec. 27, 2016_

#### Leoch man convicted in failed Fort William heist

LEOCH — The man who broke into Fort William, stole two computers and a handgun, and then assaulted an officer while resisting arrest in February was found guilty Monday.

Alexander MacGregor, 21, of Leoch, was convicted on all counts, including first-degree robbery, second-degree assault, third-degree criminal trespass and resisting arrest. At his sentencing, MacGregor faces up to 15 years in prison.

His assigned public defender, Ned Gowen, has vowed to appeal the conviction.

MacGregor broke into the garrison at Fort William just before 2 a.m. on Feb. 4. He then stole two laptops and a pistol from the office of Capt. Jonathan W. Randall, and attempted to escape on foot through the front gate of the military installation when he was apprehended by authorities just on the other side of the wall, according to court documents.

MacGregor was remanded to Leoch County Jail to await sentencing.

—30—


	2. Anecdotal Lede

I had barely enough time at my new desk to set up my computer and find a spot for my coffee mug when the call came over the scanner.

“FIRE — TWO ALARM FIRE AT 14 ELDER STREET,” the crackling voice of the dispatcher yelled. I was already punching the address into Google Maps when the city editor came running over to me, a very tall, and very young, redheaded man on her heels.

“You’re going to the scene? Good,” said Glenna Fitzgibbons. “Take the reporter with you. This is Jamie.”

“OK,” I said, swinging my camera bag — filled with my kit, laptop, notebook and phone — over my shoulder and heading towards the door. “Let’s go.” We were out of the newsroom, down the elevator and halfway to my car in the parking lot when I finally had the presence of mind to say, “I’m Claire.”

“Pleased to meet you,” Jamie said politely, getting into my passenger seat. “First day?”

“Can’t you tell?”

“Oh, it’s only that it’s mine too.”

“Nothing like a trial by fire,” I quipped. Jamie laughed softly.

And we were off, speeding towards the fire scene.

Fire crews were just arriving when we pulled onto Elder Street, and I was out of the car and had my camera out before the firefighters had gotten their hoses aimed at the flames. I clicked on my 24-55-millimeter lens and shot the whole scene, with firefighters heading into the house in full gear, and flames dramatically shooting out the windows. I changed to my longer lens, noticing a cluster of evacuees in the driveway; they were all rather disheveled and one woman was crying. I zoomed in on her face, framing it with the flames in the background — I knew I had the shot I needed.

Jamie was interviewing one of the firefighters. I put down my lens and pulled out my notebook, signaling to him that I was going to talk to the fire victims, who were now being herded by firefighters to a minimum safe distance. The fire was burning hot and high now, so I walked backwards, snapping more photos of the firefighters drenching the flames spewing from the house with water and foam.

While I was shooting, Jamie had begun chatting with one of the men who had escaped from the house. Jamie had a kind, friendly manner with his interview subjects that I could tell was innate, not acquired. The man, who was looking a little shell shell shocked, held a little girl on his hip, who Jamie was charming with ease. I approached with a sympathetic smile and my notebook and pen in hand.

“Claire, this is Tim Currans and his daughter Beth,” Jamie said, introducing us. “Claire is my photographer.”

I bristled slightly at being called “his photographer,” but brushed it off. “Hello, Mr. Currans. Could you spell that for me?” He did, along with that of his daughter, who had a head of bright blonde hair flying in the breeze. I wrote down his name as he spoke, and then held up my notebook to him. “Like this?” I saw Jamie's eyebrows shoot up — clearly no one had ever taught him this trick.

“You’ve got it,” Tim said.

“Tim was just telling me Beth was watching a movie when the fire broke out in the kitchen,” Jamie said.

“My wife was making eggs,” Tim said, a little sheepishly.

“What movie were you watching, Beth?” I asked, moderating my tone to be appropriate for a child who had just been pulled from a burning home.

She buried her face in her father’s shoulder. “Can't you tell the nice lady, Bethy?” Her father wheedled.

“Thinderella,” Beth said, her face still hidden. “The mithe were thinging.”

“Oh, Cinderella was my favorite!” I said, and Beth’s eyes popped up shyly from behind her father's shoulder. Beth turned her head and smiled at me, and I grinned back. “I know this is a difficult time, but would you tell us what happened next?” I asked Tim.

“Well, Doris was cooking, like I said, and there was a sound like a huge wooooosh!” Tim said.  “And she comes screaming into the room, ‘Fire, fire, fire’,” and we could smell the smoke…” He took a heaving breath, trying to control the emotion in his voice. “It happened so fast. I grabbed Bethy and we all ran. Everything’s…” he gestured to the house, still on fire and clearly a total loss.

I was scribbling as fast as I could, and so was Jamie. “I’m so sorry,” I said, and put my hand on his shoulder briefly, in sympathy.

“Any chance we could speak to your wife?” Jamie asked. Tim turned and hollered to Doris, who came over reluctantly. Her face was tear-strewn; she was the woman who had been crying in my photo. Jamie looked as sympathetic as a man holding a reporter’s notebook could, as Tim introduced us. “Would you tell us what happened, ma’am?”

Doris Currans leaned into her husband’s side, and he wrapped his free arm around her was she spoke. “I was making breakfast, like I always do, and I didn’t do anything the stove just burst into flames!” I took a closer look at her face, and noticed some of ends of her hair were singed. “It spread so fast. We just grabbed what we could and Tim got Bethy and we got out.”

“What will you do now?” Jamie asked, not unkindly.

“I don’t know. Everything we had was in that apartment. Tim’s been out of work and my job’s cut my hours and the firefighter said we could get into a shelter but…” She then burst into tears again.

Jamie put down his notebook. “Thank you so much for talking to us. I know you’ve got a lot on your plates, but if you can, can you call me when you settle in a few days?” He handed the Currans his business card. “I’d like to follow up with you.” Tim nodded, and I thanked the family too.

“You got what you need?” I asked, checking my phone. “I’ve got an 11 o’clock in Millerton, and that’s…” I tapped into the maps app and typed in the town. “Shit, 35 minutes away.”

“I can do the rest from the newsroom if you can drop me, Sassenach.”

“Sassenach?”

“Oh, sorry,” he blushed. “It’s just, um, a nickname? Means you’re not from around here.”

“I’m not from anywhere, much less from here,” I said, climbing back into my car.

“How can that be? Everyone’s from somewhere.”

“Maybe I’ll tell you about it sometime,” I said.

I had three more assignments that day: an 11 a.m. press conference that started 45 minutes late, but only took 20 minutes to wrap up; a 1:30 p.m. school tour highlighting building renovations, where I met up with an old-timer named Angus who asked a million questions a minute and seemed to have a crush on the administrator giving the tour; and finally a 4:30 p.m. high school football game, which took three hours and frankly nearly broke my spirit — I hadn’t shot a sports assignment in nearly five years. By the time I made it back to the newsroom, it was 8 p.m., and I still had to select, process and caption the images from my last assignment.

I ran through my take, dolefully regretting not having my 300-millimeter lens at the football game, but dutifully selected five and captioned them, uploading them into the folder that the page designers and web editors could access. I longed for my my bed, the only thing that had been set up in the tiny apartment I had just moved into, and the strongest beer I could find at the liquor store, currently waiting for me in my fridge. But I had to check in with the editor before I left.

Dougal MacKenzie had told me not to leave before stopping by his office. A tall, middle-aged man with dark hair and strong bones, he was dressed like every newspaper editor I’d ever met: khaki pants and a tucked-in Oxford shirt, his mismatched tie loosed in deference to the late hour. He beckoned me inside when I knocked on his door.

“Good first day?”

“Busy,” I said, grinning sardonically. There’s no such thing as slow day at a newspaper.

“You’ve made quite the impression already. Glenna couldn’t stop singing the praises of your fire photos at the news meeting. You and my nephew will be A1 tomorrow.”

I raised my eyebrows, and quickly put two and two together: Jamie the rookie reporter was a member of the MacKenzie family, the family that owned and ran the Leoch Times.

“Oh, good,” I said, turning to leave. “Goodnight.”

“See you tomorrow, Claire.”

When I arrived in the newsroom the next morning, there was a copy of the paper sitting on my desk and a hot coffee from the local mini-mart beside it. Doris Currans’ crying face, flames spewing from her home in the background, stared back at me, four columns wide — the lead story. A big yellow post-it note was stuck on the front reading in bold print,  “Great shot! Thanks for everything. ~Jamie.”

I sipped my coffee and smiled.

_The Leoch Times, March 14, 2017_

#### Leoch family loses everything in house fire

BY JAMES FRASER

LEOCH — Beth Currans, age 4, was watching the mice sing in the Disney classic “Cinderella” Monday morning when her whole life was turned upside down.

“There was a sound like a huge ‘woosh,’” said Tim Currans, Beth’s father, “and [my wife] comes screaming into the room, ‘Fire, fire, fire!’”

Their home, a second-floor apartment in a duplex located at 14 Elder St., caught fire when a gas line in their stove ignited at 9:20 a.m. Doris Currans, Tim Currans wife and Beth’s mother, was cooking eggs when the fire started.

“I didn’t do anything the stove just burst into flames!” Doris Currans said. “It spread so fast. We just grabbed what we could and Tim got Bethy and we got out.”

The family is currently being housed in a shelter downtown Leoch.

“Everything we had was in that apartment,” Dorris Currans said…

—30—


	3. On Background

It was Friday, finally, and I was putting the finishing touches on my last assignment of the week — a polka party for seniors at the Leoch Community Center. It had been a fun way to end my first week as a daily news shutterbug. The colorful swirling skirts the old ladies sported were a challenge to capture and I had been exercising some pop flash photography muscles that had been dormant for a while. I made my selects, scrolling one-by-one through each image, making snap decisions about their quality and composition, and then pulled out my notebook for captioning: “Olive Martins, 78, dances the polka with her husband David, 81, at the…”

“Claire, are you coming out tonight?” I looked up to see Glenna, wearing a light jacket and carrying her huge tote, heading towards the newsroom exit. It took me a moment to remember: the new employee welcome party, which seemed more like an excuse for the newsroom to gather and drink than anything else.

“If I can get this assignment in, I’ll be there,” I said, trying to be cheerful. I could use a beer, or ten, and while a long day in the field had me craving the solitude of my apartment (still full of boxes), I could hardly skip out on a party perfunctorily in my honor.

The bar was a lively kind of place in a renovated warehouse, with big wooden picnic tables, garage doors half-open in celebration of a nascent spring, and peanut shells all over the floor. Jamie, who was holding a monstrous glass tankard of beer and disinterestedly chatting with the blonde intern, spotted me and waved cheerily, beckoning to me. I gestured towards the bar, and mimed tipping a beer into my mouth, and then headed toward the taps. I flagged down the bartender and ordered an IPA.

“If you get the big one, you get a free hot dog,” Jamie said, appearing at my side.

My stomach rumbled. “That sounds awesome,” I said, turning to the bartender. “Make it a big one!” I was quickly rewarded with a full liter of beer and a hot dog drowned in mustard, of which I gratefully took a huge bite. “How was your first week?” I asked Jamie, my mouth full. He was leaning against the bar, staring a little too intently at my lips.

“I’ve been staying busy, although not so much as you. The paper’s been filled with your stuff.”

“I think your uncle is just putting me through my paces,” I said.

“Oh, he likes to do that with new recruits,” Jamie said, leaning in conspiratorially. “I spent a summer as an intern in high school, and he ran off two reporters and a copy editor in three months.”

“So, how are you holding up?”

“He’s got it in for me, but _je suis prest_ , as my dad used to say.”

I took a gulp of my beer, which was delightfully hoppy and just a bit sour. Damn, he was charming. And was smiling at me like I was the only other person in the bar. I changed the subject: “Have you had a chance to follow up with the Currans?”

Jamie looked momentarily confused, then seemed to mentally spin a rolodex and figure out who I was talking about. “Oh, yeah. Tim called yesterday. They’re still in a shelter, but I’m going to visit next week. You should come with me…”

At this juncture, Glenna spotted us and ushered me over to the giant table where the rest of the staff had gathered. I took a seat next to Magdalen, the generally pugnacious morning web editor, who like everyone else at the table had one of the big mugs of beer filled about half-way with something dark. She was regaling the crowd with the story of an ongoing battle with a racist online commenter — “After I banned him the second time, he somehow popped up again on his niece’s account of all things. Like, how?” — when Jamie plopped himself down opposite me between Angus and Rupert, the two features writers.

I was keeping my eyes directed toward Magdalen, but Jamie was looking intently at me — and out of the corner of my eye, I saw the moment when Angus saw it. His face lit up like a kid on Christmas, and he leaned back and tapped Rupert on the shoulder, gesturing towards Jamie and then me. Getting the idea, Rupert started in on him: “So, have you been getting to know the new intern? _Laaaaaaoghaaaaaireeeee_.” He lasciviously lengthened her (frankly unpronounceable) name, and the tips of Jamie’s ears turned scarlet in embarrassment. Angus roared in laughter, which caught the attention of the entire table.

“I just helped her out with a source,” Jamie said mildly, belying his red ears. He looked across the table at me, almost in apology. The poor intern looked horrified. I kicked Rupert under the table, and Magdalen gave Angus a very dirty look.

Perhaps sensing that teasing Jamie about the intern would do more to embarrass the intern, Angus changed tactics. “And how was the board meeting? Heard we were getting some new advertising people.”

Jamie flushed even hotter. “You know I can’t talk about that.”

“Oh, were you covering it for the paper?” I asked innocently.

“No.”

He was the nephew of the publisher and the editor of the paper, a member of the family that owned the whole business, and it was clearly a family affair. I narrowed my eyes at him, deducing. His face had fallen into a blandly neutral mask. “You’re not on the board, are you?”

He twitched. “Not exactly.”

I had a million follow-up questions, all bubbling up in my mind like the carbonation in the beer of which we were all clearly having too much, but Jamie was saved from further interrogation by the ring of my cell phone. I fished it out of my bag, thinking to silence it, but when I saw who it was I delightedly tapped “accept.”

“Joe!” I was stood up and started to turn away from the table.

“Lady Jane, you need to call your husband.”

The bar was loud, and the conversation had moved on at the table, but one glance at Jamie told me he had heard every word. “He’s not my husband,” I said, a little louder than necessary, as I fled from the group.

“You haven’t signed the papers yet so, yes, he is.”

“I’ve been a bit busy.”

“Interstate moves tend to do that. Thanks for letting me know you arrived safely, by the way.” I hadn’t, and felt a twinge of guilt. “Have you found a therapist yet?”

“Have you been going every week?” I shot back. His silence answered my question. “What does Frank want?”

“Your new phone number, for one. And to know where you disappeared to, too.”

“Well, he doesn’t get to know that, does he? Tell him to talk to my lawyer.”

“I have been. He just wants to know you’re OK, LJ.”

“I’m fine,” I insisted, almost believing it.

“How’s the new job?”

“Busy. But no bullets, so far. House fire was the most dangerous thing I shot all week.”

“Sounds like heaven.”

I smiled. “Right?”

After asking after Joe’s wife Gail and the kids, and giving him a few more details about my new digs, I hung up and moseyed back to the party, sitting on the other side of Magdalen between her and Glenna to avoid Jamie. He was also avoiding me, and seemed to be lavishing attention on the intern, who had scooted up the table to be closer to him.

“Who was on the phone?” Magdalen asked.

“Old friend,” I said as neutrally as possible. “We went to college together, and shared some assignments after.”

“He’s a reporter?”

“Photog, like me. We went to Afghanistan, North Africa, Palestine, and a few other places.”

Geillis, one of my fellow photographers, was across the table, listening. She leaned in, a look of interest on her face. “Was he in Libya with you?”

I felt a rush of cold adrenaline speed through my body, from toes to fingertips to the top of my head while my stomach turned to ice. I hadn’t told anyone here about Libya; it wasn’t exactly casual newsroom conversation. I was sure the shock showed on my face, but I nodded, I hoped nonchalantly. My mind raced: It had been in the news, and certainly it traveled in more detail through journalism circles. Geillis certainly could have remembered it, and then placed me with the story. Oh, god, did everyone know?

Glenna put her warm hand on my arm. “Have some water and a few of these.” She looked disapprovingly at my rather empty tankard of beer and pushed a large tray of tater-tots in front of me. Geillis left the table and I closed my eyes, breathing deeply and willing my heartbeat to slow, and then popped a tot into my mouth, which helped immensely. I really needed to stop eating only what I could scrounge in the newsroom between assignments. When I opened my eyes again, Jamie was sitting next to me.

“You alright? You look like you’re going to hurl.”

“How kind of you,” I said, trying for humorous self-deprecation. I could feel the warmth of his body radiating next to mine, warming me. I felt the wild urge to throw my arms around him and drink in his heat, but resisted — we were surrounded by coworkers and strangers, and we barely knew each other. He looked at me with wordless sympathy, and I felt my cheeks burn under his gaze.

“Go get her a glass of water, Jamie,” Glenna instructed from my other side, breaking the small spell we had been weaving between ourselves. A few minutes later, when a large glass of icy water appeared before me, I had been re-absorbed by the crowd. Jamie, with a smile, disappeared towards the end of the table.

I didn’t see him again until the end of the night. The party was breaking up, and I had packed up my bag, put on my coat, and was settling my tab at the bar — when I saw Jamie’s red hair out of the corner of my eye. He was seated on a barstool in a dark corner, with the intern Laoghaire on his lap, engaged in an enthusiastic make-out session. He looked up just in time to see me staring at them, credit card still in-hand. With an ironic lift of his eyebrow, he pulled the intern closer to him and settled back to his work. I shrugged back, with as much humor as I could muster, and then practically ran out to my car. It was none of my business.


	4. News in Brief II

_The Leoch Times, March 21, 2017_

#### Leoch inmate found hanged in cell

LEOCH — An inmate at Leoch County Jail was found dead in his cell Saturday night from an apparent suicide, the Leoch County Sheriff's Office said.

Alex MacGregor, 21, of Leoch, hanged himself with a strip torn from a bed sheet he had apparently tied to the bars on a small window in his cell, the sheriff's office said. MacGregor was discovered by corrections officers and declared dead on the scene.

The sheriff's office said there was no indication MacGregor was suicidal or mentally unstable.

MacGregor was awaiting sentencing after being convicted of breaking into Fort William and stealing computer equipment and a handgun in February 2016. He faced up to 15 years in prison at his sentencing, which had been scheduled for April.

—30—


	5. Get Reaction

Dougal and Jamie loomed before me on an unusually slow Wednesday morning, newspapers and notebooks in hand.

“Did you see this?” Dougal demanded, plonking yesterday’s local section down on my desk. A brief was circled in blue ballpoint: _Leoch inmate found hanged in cell._ I hadn’t seen it, but it was never a good idea to admit I wasn’t reading the paper cover-to-cover every day. “We’ve been following this case for a year and the kid just up and…” He made a futile gesture with his hands. “Go with Jamie and talk to MacGregor’s mother.”

I was reading the brief as he spoke. “It’s a suicide. Shouldn’t we be hounding the coroner, not his mom?” Jamie made a face at me that clearly stated, “That’s what I said!”

Dougal had already fended off this argument: “We’re doing both. Obviously we need to be sensitive to the family.” He said this offhandedly, as a matter of form. “But don’t come back until you get reaction and art.” And then he spun on his heel and stalked back to his office.

I was carefully considering my gear. Huge cameras and lenses tended to spook people in sensitive situations, so I reached for two pancake lenses, and then popped them into my smaller bag. I could tell Jamie was watching me as I gathered my things and slipped into my jacket.

“Can you drive?”

“I drove last time,” I said, but reached for my keys. “It’s your turn.”

“It’s not that I wouldn’t,” he said quickly, “but I can’t. I only have the one helmet and…”

“Oh! So, the motorcycle in the parking lot is yours?”

He nodded, a bit sheepishly, but then smiled so radiently it was like the sun came out. “I’ll take you out on it sometime.”

It was tempting to smile back, but I slung my bag over my shoulder and headed towards the back door (I’d discovered a new shortcut to the parking lot). “You should take Laoghaire,” I said with more edge than I meant, and cringed to myself.

“Nah, but maybe your husband wants to try it out?”

I deserved that, I was sure.

Alexander MacGregor’s mother lived in Cranesmuir, one of Leoch’s shabbier neighborhoods. Run-down duplexes — some with pit bulls perched on the roof — lined the ill-maintained road, and as I pulled onto High Street I felt a stab of pity for the young man who had felt so much despair. “You should go in alone,” I said, quietly. “Two of us might be intimidating.”

Jamie thought about this a moment. “No, I think I need you in there. You’re way less intimidating than me.” He was a towering giant made of lean muscle, and if his mop of red curls was charming, the sharp bones of his face and slant of his eyes were those of a fierce ancient warrior. “Just hide your camera until she’s accustomed to us. And maybe do the introductions?”

Alice MacGregor was a slip of a woman, with thin brown hair and deep-sunk, grief-filled eyes. She answered the door after my soft knock, and eyed us with suspicion from behind the lock chain. “Who are you?”

I took a deep breath, steading myself. “I’m Claire, and this is Jamie. We’re with the Leoch Times and we’d like to speak with you about your son, Alexander.”

The woman’s whole body tensed, as if drawing herself up to do battle. “You people! He just died!” She inhaled, preparing for an onslaught. Alice’s grief and rage radiated so potently that it made me want to weep alongside her.

I looked her straight in the eye. “Please, we just want to know about Alex from the people who loved him.” Alice examined me speculatively, and read the truth on my face. She deflated, like a balloon pricked by a needle, and opened the door wide. Jamie patted my shoulder in approval and followed her inside the small, dark living room. She sat in a chair, and Jamie on the end of a worn couch. I sat gingerly on the other end, my bag at my feet.

Jamie, with a look of tender concern, explained the preliminaries: he was a reporter, and anything she said could end up in the newspaper. If she wanted to go off-the-record for any information they needed to agree beforehand. It was a fine bit of interview prep, and I warmed to how kindly he spoke with her. He had nice feelings.

“Tell me what your son was like in school,” Jamie began.

Alice’s face lit up in memory, and then almost crumbled. “He was funny, his teachers loved him. Not so good as some kids, you know, but good. For here.” It was obvious she meant Cranesmuir, which had a reputation for poor schools and even poorer students. “He was on the track team. He loved to run.”

“What did he do after high school?”

“He tried a few classes at Leoch Community, but it was tough. We couldn’t scrape together the money, and he had to work. The jobs weren’t enough, but he always helped me out when he could. Helped me keep this place.”

And on it went. Alex was smart, and had kept trying to get back into college, or get better jobs and work his way up, but nothing panned out. Sometimes it was a racist boss, or a car that just couldn’t get him to work on time. And so, like so many young men from the neighborhood, he floundered, and then…

“I couldn’t believe it when he was arrested,” Alice said emphatically. “Alex, my Alexander, had never been in trouble.”

At this, Jamie’s face revealed a small bit of skepticism. “Never?”

“Oh, it was kid’s stuff.” Alice waved her hand, dismissing. “He spray painted a brick wall and got caught when he was 16. He got community service, and I made him go; he did all of it. And I made him swear that he’d never do anything like it again. Alex didn’t lie.” She was on the verge of tears again.

“Did you visit him in jail?”

Alice’s face darkened. “That place is a dungeon. Everyone knows the police don’t treat people correctly.”

“What did he tell you?”

“He didn’t tell me anything. But he’d be roughed up. Bruises, cuts. One time I saw a circular burn on his upper arm.”

“You don’t think it was the other prisoners?”

“No.” She looked at him, hard in the eye. “Can I tell you something without it going in the paper?”

“Off the record?” Jamie asked. She nodded. “OK.”

“Captain Jack Randall. From the fort.”

“What about him?”

“He visited Alex in prison.”

“And?”

“I think he was beating up my boy.”

I watched Jamie’s brain whirl through a slew of possibilities, but then he closed off the line of questioning. “Can we go back on the record now?”

At the end, I pulled out my camera. “Alice, do you have any photos of Alex? I’d like to take your picture with one.” I knew it was a little cliché, but I also knew I could get some lovely morning light out of the lone front window. Alice produced an old school photo of her son, posed in front of the cloudy gray backdrop that was so common to picture day, and framed in a cheap black plastic frame. Alex had been gawky, but smiled with an extraordinary kindness that belied his end.

I pulled out my 50-millimeter lens and opened the aperture wide while speeding up my shutter in the hopes of capturing the ephemeral rays of light speckled with dust in my frame. I pulled the cheap armchair from the corner next to the window, so when I sat Alice down the light illuminated the side of her face, as well as the portrait of her son she held cradled in her arms.

Jamie watched me intently as I drove us away; I could almost feel his gaze cutting into me while he sat in the passenger seat. I kept my eyes resolutely on the road, silently willing my cheeks to stop blazing.

Finally, frustrated by my failure, I snapped: “What?”

“How is your husband not your husband?” Jamie asked.

“How are you ‘not exactly’ on the board?” I shot back, pulling one of my hands off the wheel to make sarcastic air quotes.

He chuckled. “Oh. I just observe at board meetings. I can’t talk. I can’t vote. I can just listen. It’s part of the agreement my uncles made with my dad when my mom died  — she was their sister, you know?”

“Part of the family business?”

“Yep, Dougal’s girls and Colum’s son are all too young, and my sister isn’t interested at all, so I’m the one they’re training up to take over when the time comes.”

“Ah.” I said, noncommittally. Jamie fell silent, clearly waiting for me answer his own question.

I drew in a deep breath, trying to find the courage to talk about it. “I left him months ago, after an assignment went south.”

“You’re not divorced?”

“We’re not anything. It’s been over a long time.” Jamie huffed a bit at this, in disbelief. “The rest is just, you know, legalities,” I said defensively.

“Legalities?” He sounded incredulous.

“It’s all lawyers and stuff, OK? I left Frank after Libya, haven’t talked to him since, and now I’m here, and that’s that.”

“Sounds like you owe him an explanation.”

“Well, it also sounds like the future owner of the newspaper shouldn’t be making out with interns in bars, but what would I know?”

That shut him up.

The story ran on the local front, C1, with my portrait of Alice MacGregor and her grief-stricken eyes surrounded by shining rays of light at three-and-a-half columns. Jamie stood next to me at the morning meeting, the day’s section fronts tacked up on the wall, and nudged my shoulder.

“Alice might have been right about the captain,” he said softly to me, as we waited for everyone to gather.

“Oh?”

“Got a hold of the visitor logs. One Jonathan Randall visited MacGregor about ten or so times while he was in jail. And here’s the kicker: Randall’s the one Alex stole from.”

“What?” I said, louder than I intended. A few people turned to look at me strangely. Jamie smiled politely, and faces turned away.

“Right? There’s more to this story than what we’ve got.”


	6. Chase the Story

Jamie was drowning in paperwork. Every square inch of his desk was piled high with files, old newspapers, reports — I thought I could see an AP Stylebook and a copy of “The Elements of Style” peeking out of the mess. “You’ve been here three weeks. How do you already have this much junk?” I asked, passing by his desk on my way to the kitchen.

His huge frame was dwarfed by the mess. “Life of a city reporter.” He stood up and peeked over to my own desk, a few rows over. “How’s yours so clean?”

I shrugged. “Travel light, travel far.” Other than my photo gear, I had never been one to horde or collect material items; I lived in my skin, and expressed myself though my work. My one concession to personalizing a workspace was a small potted cactus that sat in the corner of my desk — it had been suggested to me that having a plant to care for would help me stay focused and calm.

“Can I get you a coffee?” Jamie asked; he was moving to stand himself.

“I’m on my way out. I have to be at city hall in 30.” I held up my travel mug. “Just getting a refill.”

“Well, want to get a slice later?” I eyed him speculatively, but at the first sign of reluctance he continued: “I want to pick your brain about the MacGregor story.”

“My last assignment’s at 7.”

“I’ll be here late,” he grinned at me. I reflected that he must know that his grins could make me do anything he wanted. “And I know the best spot in town.”

Alfonsi’s was a worn-down little dive that seemed like it was straight out of a Billy Joel song. It was unfashionably vintage, filled with oak benches, burgundy vinyl seat covers, cheesy Italian-themed wallpaper and mass-produced oil paintings depicting scenes from other Italian restaurants. It was late, nearly 10 p.m., and the place was only sparsely populated. We sat down in a huge booth that could’ve fit six, and Jamie promptly ordered a whole pitcher of the only cheap beer the place had on tap.

“What do you want on your pizza, Sassenach?”

I raised my eyebrows at the nickname, but didn’t comment. “Please say you don’t want anchovies.”

“What’s wrong with anchovies?”

“They’re spiney and gross, for one thing.” I wrinkled my nose in disgust.

“They’re great with mushrooms and onions, but I can be persuaded in other directions.”

The waitress materialized with the beer and two chilled glasses; she poured us each a glass with a flourish and then reached into her apron for her order pad.

“Pepperoni and green peppers?” I queried Jamie with a tilt of my head.

He nodded. “Eight-cut round, please, with pepperoni and green peppers,” he ordered. As the waitress walked away, he smirked at me. “You order pizza like a 5-year-old.”

“What 5-year-old likes green peppers?” I gulped at my beer. Despite its cheapness, it was refreshing; the alcohol hit my empty stomach and warmed my insides. I turned to business: “What’s up with the MacGregor story?”

If he was disappointed by the change in subject, he didn't show it. “So.” He took a deep breath, winding up to begin. “Alex MacGregor breaks into Fort William, gets into Captain Jonathan Randall’s office, and steals a laptop, a few other valuables and a handgun. He’s arrested practically on-site, and sent to jail. Alex insists he’s innocent, it goes to trial. He’s convicted, mostly on Randall’s testimony. And now he’s dead. So, why the hell was Randall visiting him in jail?”

I shrugged. “Trying to help scare the kid straight?”

“Except the kid was already on the straight and narrow, or, as straight and narrow as kids from Cranesmuir can be. I checked out his record; other than a few tickets he was as clean as his mom says.”

“You didn't believe her?”

“Like Dougal says, ‘If your mother says she loves you, check it out.’”

“I had a prof in j-school who said that all the time.” I smiled in memory. “Have you gotten anything from the coroner?”

He rolled his eyes in frustration. “Coroner isn’t releasing the full report, just the findings summary. Cause of death was definitely asphyxiation due to hanging. There were some vague references to contusions and abrasions, which holds with what Alice told us.”

“How about murder? It’s not like police don’t kill people and lie to cover it up.” Jamie held up his hands and gestured to say maybe, maybe not. “Official police findings?” I asked.

“They’re still investigating, or so they say, and won’t comment on open investigations. It could be weeks or longer before we get anything from them.”

“Sounds like a lot of dead ends.”

“It’s dead end after dead end.” He sighed, his forehead wrinkled in worry. “This is my first big story. I want to really get it.”

I took another sip of beer, and then fiddled with the glass in my hands, pondering. My glass was still about a quarter full, but Jamie picked up the pitcher and topped me off, and then filled his own. “Have you talked to the army? If Randall’s suspect, look in his closet.”

His eyebrows shot up. “I haven’t. Bet I can ask for his service records.”

“FOIA the shit out of them if they push back,” I said, consideringly. “What about Alice?”

Jamie opened his mouth to reply, but at this juncture the waitress appeared with plates in one hand and a giant pizza in the other. She deftly passed out the plates and then plopped the pizza on the table, and served slices. Jamie promptly started shaking an absurd amount of red pepper on his slice, fanning it to cool. I gingerly sprinkled bit of parmesan on mine, and after it scorched my fingers, grabbed my knife and fork and cut my first bite.

“Really?” Jamie asked, amused.

“You’re not going to have skin on the roof of your mouth for a week,” I warned as he took a huge bite.

He grimaced as if in pain, but gamely kept chewing. As he swallowed, I felt his foot nudge mine under the table, and then hook around my ankle. He leaned across, and with a warm smile, said, “You could kiss it better for me.”

I kicked him with my free foot, dislodging my ankle and tucking my feet under the bench. I leaned back, and took another drink of beer, hiding a smile behind my cup. Cheeks flaming, I eyed him as sternly as I could manage. “Did you think you could scam me into a date?”

“If this is a scam, it worked like a charm.”

“Inappropes, dude,” I said, but I grinned at him in spite of myself.

He shrugged, as if trying to make room for himself in a slightly-too-small shirt. “Well, if you insist on talking business,” he paused for dramatic effect, and took a drink of his own beer, “what about Alice?”

“Alice MacGregor?”

“Yeah, you were about to tell me something about her before the pizza showed up.”

“Oh!” Relieved to be back on professional ground, I easily found my train of thought from before. “Have you talked to her about getting the full autopsy report, or Alex’s prisoner file? They’ll release stuff to next-of-kin they’d never give to a reporter.”

“And then if she gives it to us, we’re in the clear.” He considered this, munching on his slice. “She’s lawyered up, but she still might talk to me. She took a shine to you.”

“You might be better off convincing the lawyer.”

“Ah, Ned Gowen’s an old friend of my grandfather’s. He’d be no trouble.”

“Ned’s the lawyer, I take it?”

“He’s everyone’s lawyer, around here. I’ll talk to Dougal; he’ll be able to win him over.”

“Have you talked to Alex’s friends? Other people in the neighborhood?”

“What for?”

“Who knows. Could find out anything. I’d be trying to figure out why Randall took such an interest in Alex, and what other rumors are out there. If you want to gain these people’s trust, you have to be there, ya know?”

And there it was: the one truth I knew about journalism; I knew it in my bones. It was different for reporters; they could get the story after the fact. People could tell them what had happened, and they could make the reader feel as if they were there. Photojournalists didn’t have the luxury of catching the action later, they had to be in the middle of it, witness it firsthand. It was the truth that had taken me around the world and into the danger of war zones, and had somehow led me here.

By the time I was three slices in, the pitcher was empty and we had parsed everything we knew about Alex MacGregor and his death. Jamie had housed four, and was contemplating slice number five. He scowled at it, rubbing a hand on his flat stomach, but then went for it. “It’s so good,” he said, almost regretfully, between bites. I chuckled at him, and reached for the check. Jamie was faster, though, and whisked it out of my grasp.

“Hey!”

“I got it,” he said. “Don’t worry.”

I rolled my eyes at him. “I’m paying half.”

“I’ll expense it.”

“Who the fuck gets to expense dinner? Everyone gets mileage only.”

“Fine, I won’t expense it. But you gave me a ton of good advice, let me say thank you and buy you some damn pizza.”

“Nope. Not happening.” I stared him down, pulled out my wallet, and waited.

“Ugh, fine. It’s 20 bucks each, with tip.” I smacked the cash onto the table with a flourish and slipped back into my jacket. Jamie wrapped a scarf around his neck and zipped up his hoodie. “You’re a stubborn one, Sassenach.” He nodded his head toward the door.

“You better believe it,” I said, sliding out of the booth and following him out.

My tiny sliver hatchback was the only car in the parking lot; Jamie’s motorcycle was more than a few spaces beyond it. “This is me.”

He was right in front of me, and so close I could smell the faint whiff of beer and… had he used a breath mint? I leaned in, brushing my arm into his side. “Yeah,” he said, “thanks for…”

“Of course. I’ve chased enough stories to know how it goes.” I shrugged. Keys in hand, I gestured towards my car.

“Claire?”

“Yeah?” I turned back, and he closed the gap, taking my arm in hand and pulling me to him. I raised my face, and he kissed me, hot and fast. I tangled my hand in his sweatshirt and kissed him back hard, blood singing in my veins. One of his hands was in my hair and the other reached around my back and started heading south. Despite the chill of the early spring night, I was suddenly burning hot, and wanting.

The kiss ended as suddenly as it began. We stared at each other for a moment, stunned with what had just happened. But then I squeezed his arm and stepped away into the night. “See you later.”

Alone in my bed, I stared at the white ceiling in the dark. I had left my husband and my friends and my home and my job so I could be unmoored from the earth. If I could leave those things behind, I could leave anything. But Jamie made me want. He made me want to be present. He made me want to stay. I reached for my phone, the blue light flashing in the darkness, and texted Joe: “I’m going to need you to talk me out of doing something stupid.”


	7. At the Scene

“WHO THE HELL YOU JIVIN’ LJ?”

I had hit the “Do Not Disturb” icon on my phone with little regret the night before, but woke to a slew of text messages from Joe the next morning.

“YOU ARE NOT EVEN LEGALLY SEPARATED FROM YOUR HUSBAND, LADY JANE.”

“WOULD YOU CALL ME?”

“OR AT LEAST CALL YOUR LAWYER? JESUS, CLAIRE.”

I hauled myself out of bed with effort and stumbled into the bathroom. Joe was right; I should call my lawyer. It had been easier to pretend none of it was happening than to actually make it end. I brushed my teeth as I mulled over my failed marriage. Frank resented the time I spent on assignment; he hated the danger; he was insanely jealous of Joe; and he thought he was so sneaky — yes, I had known before Libya that my marriage was over. I had just been in denial.

I turned on the shower as hot as I could bear and stepped into the steam. A part of me missed being in the field, but as I worked a dollop of conditioner into my hair I firmly reminded myself that even though I wasn’t headed into war zones and third-world countries anymore, I was in the field every day; my field was just a little more domestic than it had been. Daily news had a different rhythm, a steady structure with infinite but mostly predictable variations, that I found soothing. Which was good. I was supposed to be focusing on routine. One day after the next.

I shouldn’t have kissed Jamie. I shouldn’t have even gone out with him; we worked together. I admitted to myself that, despite my protestations, I knew that the slice of pizza had been a date and I went on it because I wanted him. Frank wasn’t the only one I could be in denial about. As I washed, my hands lingered on my breasts, and I over-lathered a nipple, indulging in the memory of them pressed against Jamie’s chest, his mouth hard on mine. Where had he learned to kiss like that?

The sharp chime of my phone snapped me out of my reverie. I peeked my head out from behind the shower curtain — it was Glenna. I shook the water from my hand as best I could and grabbed my phone.

“Shooting at 597 Montrose Ave.”

Without a second thought I texted back: “On my way.”

I stood under the stream for about 10 seconds, long enough to get any extra soap off me, and then hastily turned off the water, stumbled out of the shower and dried. I wrapped my hair in my towel, ran into my bedroom and threw on the first clothes I saw: yesterday’s undergarments and jeans, a light sweater — shit, was that pizza sauce? I pulled the top off and dove deeper into the pile of discarded clothing on the floor. I emerged with a black blouse, a little wrinkled but with no obvious stains, and flew into the living room to find shoes.

“Have shoes, have jacket,” I said aloud, running through the list as I threw on my green cargo jacket, “my kit has my press pass and…” I tipped the towel turban off my head, shaking my damp hair loose and leaving the wet towel on the floor; last thing I grabbed was my cell phone. Glenna texted me a map to the scene, and with my kit on my shoulder I was on out the door.

Trying not to disobey too many traffic laws, I sped to the scene. At traffic lights I prepped my gear, snapping the 70-200 millimeter lens onto the camera body at one, and then sliding in a new SD card at the next. I hung the camera strap around my neck, ready to run the second I stopped.

My phone chimed. It was Magdalen, the web editor: “Send me a pic ASAP. Jamie’s sending me a webber.”

Of course it was Jamie. Of course.

The police had had at least a 5-minute jump on me, and there were a half-dozen cop cars, fire engines and an ambulance when I arrived on the scene. Dashing out of my car, I pulled out my phone and quickly took three shots of the scene and texted them to Magdalen — she would want them on the web and social media immediately. Stowing my phone, I raised the viewfinder to my eye, my camera becoming a natural extension of my hands and my sight. Police hadn’t yet set up a perimeter, so I headed toward the red house where all the activity was centered. Cops had weapons drawn, and paramedics were surrounding a victim on the lawn. Careful to stay on the public street, I moved closer and zoomed my lens to 200 millimeters.

The young woman was covered in blood; she was clearly injured in the left side. One paramedic was applying pressure while the other passed along more bandages. I carefully framed my shot, getting the frantic emotion on the victim’s face as her blood seeped into the earth. The paramedics stabilized her neck and lifted her onto a board, and then onto the gurney, as I turned my attention the the police surrounding the house.

There were about a dozen of them, and more and more were arriving on the scene. A man was stalking back and forth in front of a window on the second floor of the house, and he was clearly armed. I was pointing my lens at him when someone tapped me on the shoulder. I jumped, startled, but turned — it was Jamie, suddenly at my side.

“What’s happening?”

“Guy up there with a gun. He shot some girl who was just loaded into an ambulance.” I raised my camera again, refocusing on the police who were now trying to negotiate with the man with the gun. “Well, it’s a standoff.”

Jamie whipped out his phone and started typing rapidly into the body of an email. “I’m going to talk to police,” he said, gesturing with his head toward one of the few officers keeping his distance from the scene.

I found a vantage point that gave me a clear view of the front door, and I could see to the side of the house. The police were in full battle gear, with protective vests and head protection. I had worn a flack jacket many times — even owned my own. It was in one of the unpacked boxes that were scattered in my living room. I quickly made a mental note to fish it out and put it in my trunk along with my muck boots, and then turned my attention back to the action, making frames of the cops with their handguns pointed at the house.

Jamie was at my side again, notebook in hand. “It’s a domestic. She’s his girlfriend,” he said. “They think he’s heavily armed.” I mused that I hadn’t been taking this job as seriously as I had my work in war zones. I would have never been without protective gear overseas.

“You get names?” I asked.

“Not yet, but I…”

“PUT DOWN THE GUN AND COME OUT WITH YOUR HANDS UP,” an officer’s voice boomed from a bullhorn.

A shot was fired, and I instinctively dropped. I covered my head with my hands as stream of bullets rained down close by, and stayed down for a moment when they stopped. There was yelling, and I popped back up, camera in hand, and started shooting myself. Police were entering the house through the front door, and the glass was broken in the second-floor window where the armed man had once stood. I was reaching for a wider lens in my bag when I saw Jamie sitting on the ground not five feet from me with his long legs sprawled in front of him, holding his upper right arm with his left hand and covered in blood.

“Medic!” EMS had left, but firefighters were still on the scene. I was already on my knees at Jamie’s side, pressing my hands to his wound. “You fucking idiot. Don’t you know to hit the deck when someone shoots at you?” He was pale, and there was an alarming amount of blood running down his arm and onto my shirt.

“I’ve never been shot at before,” he said, as indignantly as he could for someone who was about to faint.

“You’re going to be fine. Breathe slowly in and out.” His breath was rapid, and he struggled to control it. I swerved so I was kneeling in front of him, one leg on either side of his, with one hand still applying pressure to the wound on his arm. I put my other hand on his cheek, drawing his gaze to my face. “Here, breathe with me. In, two, three, four. And out, two, three, four.” Jamie nodded, and leaned his forehead against mine. “In, two, three four. And out, two, three, four.” Our inhales and exhales synced and color slowly returned to his cheeks.

“What happened?” A firefighter’s voice startled us both.

“He got hit by a bullet,” I said, looking up. The firefighter, whose uniform read “Beaton,” was carrying a large bag of supplies. He quickly pulled out bandages, and knelt down beside me.

“Here, I got him.” He took over applying pressure to the laceration. “It looks like the bleeding is stopping. That’s good.” He said this to Jamie, who was still staring at me and breathing to our rhythm. “I’m Dave, what’s yours?”

“Jamie.”

“And what are you doing here?”

“Reporting. We’re with the Times.” Dave Beaton the firefighter peeked under the bandage, but then reached for a pair of scissors and started cutting up the sleeve of Jamie’s shirt. “Shit, Claire, call Glenna.”

Glenna was frantic when I told her what happened, but quickly had the situation in hand. She was sending Angus to the scene to take over reporting, and I was to stay with Jamie and send in my photos remotely. By the time I was off the call, Jamie was neatly bandaged, if still a bit bloody, and arguing with Dave.

“You said it just grazed me, so I’m not going to the hospital.”

“You should. It’s a gunshot wound, for Christ’s sakes.”

But Jamie insisted. He spent the short time waiting for Angus typing his notes into his phone and writing grafs of the story, sending as much as he could to Magdalen before he handed everything off.

“Take me back to the newsroom, would ya?” I was sitting in my car with my laptop open, sending images back to the newsroom. I had everything, from the wider scene when I first arrived, to the woman who was rushed to hospital, to the raid and removal of the gunman’s body. There was even one frame I didn’t even know I had made: Jamie, on the ground, clutching his arm.

“You don’t want to see a doctor?” I asked, skeptically. “You got shot.”

“It’s fine,” Jamie said. “I can’t be the main reporter on this one, so I’m going to work on my Sunday story. And you must have your own assignments.” I did.

“So you want to play the hero?”

“You’ve seen our insurance. I don’t have 4-K to spend on the emergency room.”

“There’s workman’s comp.” But he shrugged, and sat in my passenger seat. He reached across and put his hand just above my knee, and left it there until we got back to the paper.

I sat in my car outside my building, head pressed into the steering wheel. It was quiet, with nothing sounding but the dull hum of the engine and the twilight song of birds in the tree above me. I had washed the blood off my hands, and done what I could about my clothing, and went out to shoot two more assignments, but I couldn’t help but see it anyways. I breathed in and out, as slowly as I could. Jamie was fine. I was fine. This was nothing like Libya.

I picked up my phone, and saw Joe’s messages from the night before. I texted back: “I’m not jivin’ anyone. JESUS H. ROOSEVELT CHRIST.”

The screen lit up with Joe’s reply: “Liar.”


	8. Supporting Details

When Claire was in the newsroom, Jamie found himself entirely incapable of writing; he absently checked Twitter while trying to hide that he couldn't stop staring at her. Angus and Rupert had taken to tossing M&Ms at him to see how many they could throw before he noticed. The record stood at five.

Claire was oblivious to this, except when she was near him and he could feel the electricity coming off her skin and the heat from her breath. Without touch, he felt her with every fiber of his being, and he knew she could feel the same.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This isn't supposed to exist, technically, but here we are. Written for The Lallybroch Library's "Tell A Story Day" drabble challenge on Tumblr. And yes, it's EXACTLY 100 words (according to my word counter).


	9. Saturday Shift

Saturdays were notorious for being busy but simple — long days filled with event coverage. My first Saturday shift had gone off without a hitch, it being full of 5K races, fairs and festivals. I was slated to start my second time through the weekend rotation with a trip to Fort William, where reenactors were taking over the historic part of the still-working military installation. I prepared carefully, as though I were going into battle. As I had been since I read the assignment sheet the night before.

_Media Contact: Capt. Jonathan Randall._

I probably wouldn’t have to talk to him, or even see him. Everything had been cleared by Glenna before she gave me the assignment. But that didn’t stop the ball of ice from forming in my stomach. Given what Jamie and I suspected, how could I face him and not let on that we were on to him?

Fort William was an imposing mix of history and military, but filled with an exuberant crowd out enjoying the spring sunshine. I stepped into the grass and pulled out my camera, stopping down my aperture to compensate for the daylight. A light breeze ruffled my hair as I walked towards the encampment of picturesque tents, their canvases shining brightly against the sky.

The first tent I came to held a demonstration of spinning; the second, of blacksmithing. Children, anachronistically painted with flowers and every sort of modern superhero, and many carrying balloon animals, swarmed around as a craftswoman carefully heated and then blew nearly-liquid glass into shapes. I stopped and framed the children’s awed faces with with the blurred bokeh of the glass blower’s colorful wares.

“Nice dress,” I said to the artesian as the children scampered after the demonstration. She was wearing a finely-made pink gown that laced up the front, with a full skirt and white neckerchief — quite the getup for someone working with hot fire and molten sand.

“I’m part of the dance demonstration later,” she shrugged. “Not exactly historically accurate, but it’s such a damn pain to get into this thing I always want to make it worth it.”

She said this with such sarcastic resignation that I laughed.

“Claire Beauchamp. I’m with the Times.” I gestured to the camera swung around my neck and pulled out my notebook. “Can I get your name?”

Jenn Buchanan, 29, of Leoch, had been participating in historical reenactments since her teens. She learned the art of glass blowing in college, but was, of all things, a postal worker in her modern life. “I think it’s so cool to help people touch the past, you know?” she said, gushing with enthusiasm. “It’s as close as we’ll ever really get to time travel.”

I was not as keen on the concept of time travel, but refrained from raining on her parade. Jenn tipped me off to the toys and games tent, and I hurried over, drawn by the sounds of joyous shouting. The tent was situated at the edge of a small field, which was filled with people chasing hoops, trying out and falling off of stilts, and a raucous game of tug-of-war. I could see the shot behind my eye before it materialized before me; a complicated layering of activities, action and shadow that would gracefully curve across the frame. I found my footing, checked my exposure, raised my viewfinder to my eye, and waited.

I felt a slight tingle in my shutter-finger right before the decisive moment; if I had not been so attuned to the light and the air and the movement of my subjects, I would’ve missed it. The shutter clicked, and I knew without looking I had exactly what I needed.

“How is the assignment coming?”

A man’s voice behind me startled me out of my photographic reverie. I turned, lowering my camera, and had the momentary impression that I had been discovered — I almost blurted out my husband’s name before my conscious brain caught up with my mouth.

“Fine,” I said, rather shortly, catching myself. The man was in uniform, the insignia of his rank gleaming on his chest. While he looked and sounded from a distance like Frank, he was clearly not the man I had momentarily thought. He was handsome and elegant, with a spare, lithe figure and fine-drawn bones. “I don’t believe we’ve met. I’m the photographer with the Times.” I gestured to my press pass, which was clipped to my bag.

“Yes, I can see.”

“And you are?”

“Captain Randall, media liaison. I approved your press credentials.”

His voice had a tone of menace to it that Frank’s lacked, like a cat playing with a mouse. It was fascinating, really, how much this man standing before me unnerved me.

“It’s a lovely event,” I said, careful to sound courteously professional. “I think you’ll like our coverage.”

He gave me an appraising, if skeptical, look. My stomach dropped into an icy pit. I clutched my camera, gathering strength from the weight and familiarity of it in my hands. I knew that while he may be capable of abusing young men while they were locked up in jail cells, he couldn’t lay a hand on me in broad daylight in a field full of witnesses.

Randall smiled, and I had the sense he wished to put me at ease. “I’m sure I will. Glenna’s been very helpful with our media efforts here at the fort.”

“Glenna is a wonder,” I said, meaning it. I had come to depend on Glenna’s guidance and respect her judgement greatly in my short time at the paper. “I’m new to the area, and she’s been such a help.”

“This your first time to Fort William?” I nodded. “If I can answer any questions, for you or your reporter, let me know.” His emphasis on the word “reporter” gave me pause.

“Oh, it’s just me today,” I said, as nonchalantly as I could.

Randall took a step closer to me, and I resisted the urge to step back. He was so close that if he had been a snake, I would’ve stepped on him. I stared him down, defiant. He lifted an ironic eyebrow, and said, “I know.”

And then he turned and walked away.

I stood frozen to the spot. Could he know that Jamie was investigating him? Had Randall fielded the FOIA request himself? Had he been reading the paper closely enough to know we were following the story? He must, I thought, he must know. And what did “your reporter” mean, anyway? My annoyance at being connected to Jamie broke through my apprehension, and I hastily checked the time on my phone. Yes, I was late for my next assignment.

For the rest of the day, I felt like I was moving through a pool of the molten glass Jenn Buchanan blew into beautiful, delicate globes. Randall hadn’t said anything but the most banal of professional platitudes, and yet his last words lingered, ringing around my head as I worked.

When I finally lumbered into the newsroom with four assignments under my belt, Jamie was hunched over his keyboard, absorbed in his writing. His arm had healed, mostly. There was only a slight bulge on his arm that betrayed a bandage. I had heavily plunked into the seat at my desk when he finally noticed me — his expression betrayed a staggering joy at my arrival, until he got a look at my face. Jamie rushed over and leaned over the low cubicle wall of my desk, putting his big, warm hand on my shoulder. My whole body leaned toward the heat of him, and the ball of ice that had been sitting in my stomach slowly began to melt. He didn’t say anything, but his blue eyes looked the question at me.

“I met Jonathan Randall at the fort today.”

“What!” I felt Jamie’s alarm as his hand on my shoulder tightened. “What did he do?”

“Not a thing. He was very professional,” I said, trying to give my words a sardonic lilt but failing miserably.

“He scared the shit out of you. Anyone can see that.”

I narrowed my eyes at him. “How the hell would you know what scares the shit out of me?”

“Sassenach, you’re white as a damn sheet and you’re clenching your hands so tightly they’re shaking.” It was true, damn him. I had been on edge for hours, and while Jamie’s presence in the newsroom was helping, I was hardly back to normal.

“He didn’t say anything. He didn’t do anything. He just...” I stopped, lacking words. How could I explain the look in Randall’s eye, or the tone of his voice? I had faced warlords and armed militias overseas, seen and photographed things most people couldn’t bear to face, much less make their life’s work. Randall was a mid-level military bureaucrat who was governed by rules, regulations and the law, and yet his total lawlessness was as apparent to me as the color of the sky or the feel of the wind. But I couldn’t say that.

“He knows you’re on to him,” I said instead.

“Oh, well, I’m not afraid of him,” Jamie said, lifting his shoulders as if to say, “what could he do?” Plenty, I was sure. But I took a breath, reminding myself that this wasn’t a war-torn country under martial law and that the boogeymen of my past weren’t everywhere I looked.

I unclenched my hands and reached for my SD cards. “I have to get this in.”

“File your stuff and I’ll take you home.”

I knew it was pointless to argue, so when I had finished selecting, cropping, toning, captioning and sending the images from my last two assignments, I let Jamie take my hand and lead me out of the newsroom. His motorcycle was parked in the space designated for the publisher, the lone parking lot light reflecting off the sleek black surfaces.

“Cheeky of you,” I said, trying to joke.

“Like Colum would come in on a Saturday,” he said sardonically, smirking as he helped me into a helmet and buttoned up my coat. I climbed on behind him and gingerly grabbed onto the sides of his jacket. He leaned back, pulling my arms tightly around him.

“Try not to break my gear, would you?” He had carefully stowed my bag in a hard-cased compartment on the back. I rested my chin on his shoulder. “It’s worth more than your life.”

“I’ll do my best,” he said. And then we sped off, leaving the brick-walled newspaper behind us, and weaving through the streets of Leoch. The cool wind whipped on my face and the turns made my stomach jump with the odd feeling of weightlessness. I hollered directions in Jamie’s ear as we rode, the fresh smell of his body overwhelming my senses and my voice carried away on the breeze.

The motorcycle slowed, and we came to a stop in front of the ancient painted-red brick building that housed my apartment. I held on to Jamie, large and sure and firm in front of me, and I clung to him just a moment longer than strictly necessary.

“You should go to bed,” Jamie said, extracting himself from my grasp.

“I hate this. I hate this so much.”

“Hate what?”

“I hate feeling afraid.”

There was a long pause, while Jamie took the helmet off me, and then opened the storage compartment, pulling out my camera bag. “You going to tell me what happened in Libya?”

I slung by bag over my shoulder, pulled out my keys, and shook out my hair. I regarded him for a long moment, deciding.

“Not yet.”

And then I turned, and went inside alone.


	10. News in Brief III

_The Bargrennan Gazette, May 1, 2017_

#### Lawsuit: Leoch mother accuses Army officer in jailhouse death of son

LEOCH — An Army captain allegedly framed a Leoch man for theft and then repeatedly abused him during his incarceration, leading to his suicide, according to claims in a wrongful death lawsuit filed by the mother of the man who died.

The lawsuit, filed in Leoch County Court, claims Capt. Jonathan Randall lured Alexander MacGregor, of Leoch, to Fort William and set him up to be arrested for theft in February 2016. MacGregor was accused of stealing two computers and a firearm and convicted on charges of robbery and assault in late December 2016.

The lawsuit further claims that Randall regularly visited MacGregor at Leoch County Jail throughout his incarceration, aided and abetted by corrections officers at the jail, and repeatedly beat and abused MacGregor.

The lawsuit requests $25 million in damages.

MacGregor was found dead in his cell of an apparent suicide in March while awaiting sentencing. The sheriff's office said at the time there was no indication MacGregor was suicidal or mentally unstable.

Alice MacGregor, the mother of Alexander MacGregor, is listed as the plaintiff. The lawsuit names Randall, the garrison at Fort William, the City of Leoch, Leoch County and the Leoch County Sheriff’s Office as respondents.

—30—


	11. Scooped

“SON OF A WHORE-MONGERING PIG FART.”

I was passing by Jamie’s desk on my way to my morning assignment when the entire newsroom shook to his staggering rage.

“Woah, dude.” I raised my eyebrows at him, but he pushed a newspaper in front of my face, one of the articles circled aggressively, and multiple times, in blue ballpoint pen.

 _Lawsuit: Leoch mother accuses Army officer in jailhouse death of son_ , the headline read.

“Oh, no,” I moaned, quickly checking the masthead. It was not the Times but our closest competitor, the Bargrennan Gazette. “Jesus H. Roosevelt fucking Christ.”

Jamie, between his hair and alarmingly vermillion face, was a perfect embodiment of the phrase, “seeing red.” But before he could say anything, Dougal’s voice boomed across the newsroom: “Jamie. My office.”

Without a word to me, Jamie stormed away and disappeared into the editor’s office. A door slammed, and everyone jumped. Magdalen pulled off her giant headphones and stood, while Angus and Rupert sniggered to each other. The only person who looked unperturbed was Glenna.

“What’s happening?” Geillis had materialized at my elbow.

“Jamie got scooped.”

“Never seen a reporter go off like for getting scooped,” Geillis said as she swung her long curtain of fair hair behind her back and hiked up her camera bag.

I shrugged. “I think the story means a lot to him.”

The unmistakable sounds of unintelligible yelling could be heard coming from Dougal’s office, and my attention was inexorably drawn back to the hidden conflict.

“There is not enough coffee or liquor in the world for this shit,” Magdalen announced loudly, and then sat back down with a dramatic huff and pointedly put her headphones on again. This seemed to be the end of it, as everyone else in the newsroom turned back to their work.

Geillis eyed me speculatively. “You really should try to hide it better.”

It was on my lips to say, “Hide what?” but Geillis had gone.

At this juncture, Jamie came storming out of the office with a huge bang (that was the door hitting the wall). He careened back into the row of cubicles that seated reporters and sat down hard with a loud plop. Unable to sit still, he immediately stood and started pacing in front of me, back and forth with huge strides.

“How could she? How could he?” Jamie sputtered, clearly still enraged but trying to contain it. He was clenching his fists and then popping his knuckles. “Ned promised me he’d tell me when papers were filed. Alice said she’d give me... and then Dougal...” He spat out his uncle’s name with particular venom.

“Well, go punch the press or something and then call the lawyer,” I said, trying to cut the tension.

Jamie looked at me a moment in furious contemplation and then, fists clenched at his side, wordlessly walked out of the newsroom and through a door that led to the abandoned pre-press room. I was rooted to my spot next to his desk as two dull thumps reverberated through the walls, and then several more in quick succession. Jamie reappeared, to my astonishment, looking quite calm and normal but shaking out his left hand.

“I have some calls to make and then I’m going to head over to the court,” Jamie said. He sat back down at his desk and pulled out his cell.

“You the reporter on the May Day story?”

“Oh, yeah,” he said, diverted from his current predicament. I noticed one of his knuckles was bleeding.

“Then I’ll see you at Cocknammon Park at 2:30?”

“Sure thing.”

I left the newsroom, grinning.

About five hours and two assignments later, I pulled into a rather empty parking lot at Cocknammon Park. As I climbed out of the car and gathered my gear from the backseat, I reflected that a lack of attendance might make this story a total bust.

Jamie’s motorcycle pulled up next to my car just as I started walking toward what was supposed to be a large May Day gathering. I stopped and turned, just as he swung a leg over his bike to dismount and then pulled off his helmet and ran a hand through his mop of red curls.

“You get the story?” I called.

“Picked up the court papers and Ned promised he’d talk to me before deadline,” he called back as he jogged to catch up to me. “Let’s knock this out.” He gestured toward the park, which was still suspiciously quiet, as he caught up to me in long, sure strides.

“How’s the hand?”

“Never better,” he said, but he kept it carefully concealed with his notebook.

We came upon a clearing near a playground, where a tall maypole was standing, a few volunteers trying to get a crowd of about 10 children interested in grabbing onto the long ribbons and dancing around it.

Jamie heaved a sigh. “I couldn't have gotten the union rally?” I had my camera out and ready, and couldn't resist pulling it up and snapping a pic of his absolutely forlorn expression. “Hey!”

I giggled at him, because now he was looking exasperatedly down at me.

“Aren't you supposed to be aiming that somewhere else?”

Despite myself, I glanced down below his waist. “Aren’t you?”

The tips of his ears turned pink, and I saw a bit of flush creep up from his collar. His fingers flitted toward me, but I stepped away and turned, all business. I could feel his eyes on my back as I pointed my lens toward the action, or lack thereof.

We made it through the May Day non-celebration. I finally managed to get a photo of the one kid who — ironically, I was sure — danced around the pole while all the other children were glued to their phones, blurred in the background. Jamie, as far as I could tell, turned his story into a Q&A with a volunteer about the history of maypoles.

I ran off to my last assignment of the day without saying goodbye to Jamie at the park. It was a quick portrait session with the subject of an upcoming arts profile. Back in the newsroom, I dutifully sorted through my takes as Jamie typed at his desk in series of rapid bursts, interspersed with periods of sullen quiet which were marked by the shuffling of papers and deep sighs.

Every now and then he got up to talk to Glenna, and they conferred in hushed whispers. He also repeatedly picked up the handset on his desk phone, dialed a number, waited while it rang, and then slammed it down when there was no answer.

As the sun set, the light shone directly into the newsroom, hitting Jamie’s red hair and bathing it in a golden glow as he worked. I had filed all my work for the day, but was reluctant to leave while Jamie was still working away on deadline. I had only made a few photos on one assignment, but I was as interested in the story of Alexander MacGregor’s death as I were reporting it myself.

I knew what it was like to be scared and locked in with someone who was causing me pain. I wished I didn’t, and I wished the same could have been true for Alex. The best I could do was tell his story. Or, help Jamie do so.

“Can you do me a favor?” Jamie had appeared at my desk, a small scrap of paper in his hand.

“Sure. What’s up?”

“Call Alice MacGregor. She isn’t returning my calls.”

“What makes you think she’ll talk to me?

“She likes you.” Jamie’s blue eyes were pleading with me, and his wide mouth was pursed with anxiety.

I snatched the slip of paper, which had a phone number and a short list of questions. “I can try.”

“I need some quotes.”

“You’re taking notes if this works.”

I stood up and pulled him by the hand into one of the interview rooms on the side of the newsroom. It was furnished with two chairs and a small broken table It was otherwise overflowing with mail crates filled with papers and old editions. Jamie sat down with his notebook and pen at the ready. I pulled out my phone and put it on speaker, and then dialed.

It rang five times.

“Hello?”

“Hi, may I speak to Alice MacGregor?” I said in my best polite phone voice. Jamie made an alarmed face at me, having never heard it before. I held my first finger up to my mouth, silently asking him to shut up and be cool.

“Yes,” Alice said. I could hear the hesitation in her voice, even through the crackly cell connection.

“This is Claire Beauchamp, the photographer with the Leoch Times. We met last month.”

“I remember.”

“We’re working on a story about the lawsuit you filed against Captain Randall and the city. Is now a good time to talk about it?”

The silence on the line made my heart speed up in anticipation. Jamie tensed; the grip on his pen tightened. Finally, Alice spoke.

“What do you want to know?”

I asked how she was feeling: “Tired but a little relieved, now that word is out,” she said, “I want everyone to know the truth about what was done to my boy.”

I asked what prompted the lawsuit: “I don’t want what happened to Alex to happen to anyone else. His last months were awful, and I know his last hours were agony. I want justice and I want that Randall to be held responsible.”

And I asked ask how she wanted Alex to be remembered: “As a sweet, kind boy. I want people to think of his life, not his death.”

Jamie scribbled furiously throughout the whole interview, and for another two minutes after I ended the call. Closing his notebook, he jumped up, excited, and kissed my cheek on his way out of the room. “I want a reporting credit on this!” I hollered after him, as he bounced back to his desk.

The night crew was deep into designing the next day’s edition. We were running with an outtake from the first time we interviewed Alice MacGregor, splashed across the top of the page with a 40-point headline that was still taking shape: _Heady goes herey herey herey_.

I stayed as Jamie finished the story, and then stayed as Glenna line-edited his copy. Jamie paced anxiously as the designer put it on the page, and I even proofed A1 while Jamie read over my shoulder.

At just about midnight, the paper went to bed. I gathered my things as Jamie put his jacket on. He lingered near my desk, as if the gossamer threads of connection between us would be severed if he strayed too far.

“Come on,” I said. I casually tilted my head, indicating towards the door. “You wanna get a drink?”

He eyed me speculatively. “Depends on where.”

I made a show of checking the time on my phone. “Bars close soon, and I’ve got some bourbon at my place.”

“I drink Scotch,” he said with a grin, “but as a rule I don’t discriminate when it comes to whisky.”

“Well then,” I said coyly. “Let’s go.”


	12. TK

How in the name of God had this happened? I asked myself sometime later. I was sitting on the toilet in my minuscule bathroom, with the full knowledge I was hiding from the boy who was waiting for me on my couch.

I knew I was still married to Frank, and yet I had invited Jamie over anyways. At midnight! For bourbon! Like I hadn’t been avoiding any whiff of legal proceedings that would actually end my marriage for months!

Oh, I was dumb. I was so dumb.

I hunched over my knees, clutching my phone tightly in my hand, desperately trying to work through the panic that had sent me in here. Did I still have feelings for Frank? I pondered that thought, but quickly dismissed it — of course not. Still, I had not slept with any man but Frank in years. Did I have reservations about Jamie because he was a coworker? That I mulled over a little longer, turning the worst case scenarios around in my head.

When it came to Jamie, the most unfavorable thing I could think of seemed like a ice cream cone on a hot day compared to what I had already been through, and that certainly wasn’t enough to stop me. I hadn’t had sex in so, so long, I rationalized; I deserved this.

I pulled up my email on my phone and started typing.

**From** : ce.beauchamp@gmail.com  
 **To** : neil@forbespartnersllc.net  
 **Subject** : Beauchamp/Randall divorce

Neil,

I’m ready to execute the paperwork. Let me know next steps.

C.E. Beauchamp

There. It was done. The voice in my head that sounded suspiciously like my friend Joe was calling me delusional and laughing hysterically, but I ignored it. Collecting myself, I ran my hands under cold water at the sink and then splashed a bit on my face, hoping to cool my burning cheeks. I took a few deep breaths, mentally running through the list of superficial grooming concerns that I had neglected to consider before — yes, I had shaved my armpits recently enough to be naked in front of a man for the first time. I opened the door and left the bathroom.

Jamie was sitting on the couch, his knees spread wide and an arm flung over the side. He was so handsome my heart hurt. I resisted curling up on the couch next to him immediately, and took a short detour to the kitchen to hunt up the liquor.

“You alright?” he called after me as I disappeared around a corner.

“Fine. You like it on the rocks?” I pulled two glasses out of the cupboard, thanking whatever gods were smiling upon me that I had at least unpacked my kitchenware.

“Nah.” I turned, and Jamie was right there, his hip leaning against the counter. “Neat, if you don’t mind.” The bourbon was in the cupboard over the fridge, and I stretched to reach it. “You need a hand?” he asked.

“Nah,” I said, cheekily. Bottle in hand, I displayed the label with a flourish. It was a 10-year that Joe had slipped in my trunk when he helped me pack up to move out to Leoch. I poured two generous dollops and raised mine.

“Cheers,” I said, tapping my glass into his.

“Slangevar.” His injured left hand, blunt-fingered and raw-knuckled, was wrapped around the glass.

“How was punching the shit out of the press?”

“Great. That was good advice.” He easily downed the drink in one gulp, and I did the same. Jamie set down the glass. “And that was good whisky.”

I poured myself another generous jigger, and then held the bottle over his glass in question. He nodded his assent as the brown liquid flowed. I sipped this time, and he eyed me speculatively. I turned, leaning my back against the counter, and he stepped just a bit closer. Suddenly, I could smell the earthy scent of him over the bourbon. He smelled warm, like man and sweat and an ever-so-slight trace of acrid newspaper ink. I breathed deeply.

“Are you smelling me?”

“What?” I leaned back, totally busted. I grabbed his wounded hand, desperately looking for a distraction, and inspected the patches of red that had started to scab over. “Looks like it’ll heal nicely.”

“You could kiss it better for me.”

I tilted my head to the side, and looked at Jamie’s face. He was looking back at me, intently, as if my face held an answer to every question he had ever asked. The whisky running heavily through my veins, I lifted his hand to my lips. His skin was warm, and as I leaned into it, he exhaled quickly on a noise that sounded suspiciously like a moan.

“Did it work?” I asked, lifting my head to face him again.

He didn’t say anything then, just bent his head to kiss me. It went on a long while, and his hands roamed downward to grab my backside. I giggled against his lips — I knew he admired that particular part of my anatomy, and had caught him staring at it more than once. I lost myself in the feel of his lips on mine, the heat that spread up and down my spine, the tingle in my chest and then lower down.

“Where did you learn to kiss like that?” I said, a little breathless. He grinned and pulled me close again.

“What do you want?” Jamie asked. He had pushed my mass of hair aside and was nibbling on my left ear. It might have been the bourbon, but it suddenly felt like my world had tilted on another axis.

“You.”

The fever that had been building between us burst into a high, hot flame. He crushed my body to him, and then lifted me, his hand secure under my rear. The scrape of my chest against his sent sparks up to my lips, which he was kissing hard. I rested my elbows on his broad shoulders and ran my fingers through his hair. His red curls were soft and silken, just as I knew they would be.

Yes, I wanted him quite badly.

Jamie had swiveled to lean me against the counter. Without even thinking, I grabbed one of the glasses of whisky, and pulled away long enough to down the last of it. He laughed heartily, and did the same. I suggestively rolled my hips against his. “Bedroom?” I asked.

“Bedroom,” he agreed. I barely had time to throw the glass back on the counter and wrap my legs around his waist before he had lifted me up entirely and hauled me off. It was moments before he dropped me onto the mess that was my unmade bed, and practically launched himself atop of me.

He was everywhere. I somehow shook off my shoes, and Jamie had unbuttoned my jeans. He was trying to remove both my pants and his own shirt at the same time, and I laughed as I waved one of his hands away from his shirt. I took over, pulling at the buttons on his shirt until it hung open, and then slid my hands beneath his undershirt to feel the heat of his skin. I teased his nipples, pinching one until it tightened deliciously, but my attention was diverted when Jamie’s hand slid into my underwear and into my slit. All the air left my lungs, fast.

“You’re so wet,” he said softly in my ear.

“Uhhhhh,” I responded as he slid past my clit and a hot sweat of arousal prickled across my skin. I reached down and cupped his own equipment. “Tell me.”

“It’s slippery and hot,” he said. I was panting, and trying to get my own hands in his pants. “I’ve been imagining this for weeks.” He groaned as I got my fingers around him, and he wiggled his hips to get his trousers down too. “I can’t wait.”

“Me either.” I kissed him hard once more, but then pushed him off me and whipped my blouse over my head. Jamie had fully removed his pants, but stopped to stare at my chest. I was pulling my undies off when he leaned forward and kissed my right breast. I threw a leg over his waist and he pulled me up so I was straddling him, and then he buried his mouth between the curves of my bosom, deftly unsnapping my bra in the process. I pressed my core into the hardness between his legs and undulated my hips, creating a delicious friction that heated me from tip to tail. “Condom?”

“Pants.” Never letting go of me, he leaned me back and grabbed his erstwhile khakis, which had mostly fallen to the floor in his haste, and then sat us both back up. I took the opportunity to shrug off my bra straps, and then pull up the hem of Jamie’s undershirt. He was beautifully made, with long, graceful bones and flat muscles that flowed smoothly from the curves of chest and shoulder to the slight concavities of belly and thigh.

There was a powerful urgency in him that roused me. I helped get his boxers off and Jamie had the rubber on in a flash. Feeling like my entire being was rushing with the momentum of this moment, I pressed my forehead to Jamie’s as he urged my hips down, joining our flesh together. I struggled to catch my breath, but couldn’t stop from moving — up and down his length, filling me over and over. My body rejoiced, suddenly gratified after a long drought. It was so good.

Jamie flopped back and pulled me with him, so that I lay on top of him. His hands splayed on my ass and I buried my face into his shoulder as he thrust into me from below. I nipped at his collarbone, and tasted the sweat at the base of his throat. I rose onto my forearms and brushed the tips of my nipples against his lightly furred chest, letting the electricity spiral downward, where building heat was starting to spark.

I spread my knees wider and tilted my hips to rub my clit against his pubic bone as he moved. I jerked against him uncontrollably on each contact, the pleasure building higher. Jamie rose onto one elbow, and drew his mouth to my breast, biting and teasing the sensitive nipple. I took over thrusting, rising slowly off his cock and then slamming back down. His free hand pawed at my hip, trying desperately to direct the motion with his need. “I need more,” I panted.

He drew me to him again and had me neatly pinned under him before I could suck in air. Now completely in control, the power of his body became pressingly apparent. He was everywhere and I was falling apart in the frenzy. “Oh fuck,” said James Fraser, “Claire.”

It didn’t take much more. I had been on the top of a cliff and was suddenly in freefall, falling into him. I came, the sparks having grown into a full-blown explosion of sensation, my body tightening against Jamie’s. He let me take him with me, groaning with completion into my hair. Jamie wrapped me up in his long, strong arms, and rolled us to the side so we lay face-to-face, hip-to-hip. I was still trembling, sparks and aftershocks still running through my limbs. He kissed me, gently and languidly, all the urgency dissipated. I could still taste a hint of the bourbon.

Sated, we slept.

I woke in the hours before dawn, shivering and rigid with terror. I could not recall the dream that woke me, but the abrupt plunge into reality was equally frightening. Jamie, who had been dead asleep beside me, pulled the covers back up around me, and then snuggled me into his side. I laid my head on his chest, slowly willing my tensed muscles to relax into his heat.

“Claire?” His voice was soft with drowsiness.

“Hm?”

“D’you wanna tell me about it?”

I paused, only a moment. “Yeah.”


	13. Stringers

“I was stringing in North Africa about a year ago. Me and Joe — have I told you about Joe? He’s my friend from college — we went over on a month-long trip, and then we got contracted by Reuters to hit up the coup in Libya.”

I was sitting upright on the bed, my back against the metal bars of the headboard, and wrapped up against the chill of the room in Jamie’s button-up shirt.

“So there were five of us in the group, me and Joe were the photogs, Sam and José were the reporters, although Sam was stringing for AP, and Firouz, our fixer and translator. We were in Ajdabiya, it’s in the northeast, almost by the Mediterranean coast, but anyways, it was a hotspot for anti-government protests and rebels. We’d been there for a few days, and we could tell the fighting was about to begin — loyalists were nearing the gate to the city, so that’s where we went.”

Jamie snorted. “I’ve noticed that when shit’s about to go down, you head straight for it.”

“It’s my job.”

Jamie was laying out on his side next to me, propped up by his elbow. He was so close that I could feel the heat of his skin and the electricity that still sparked between us, but we didn’t touch.

“I was worried the city would be surrounded and we’d be stuck. All things being equal, being trapped in a war zone is significantly more risky than not.”

“Was that why you headed for the gate?”

I shrugged noncommittally. “Before we got to the fighting, we ran into a checkpoint. We were arguing about if we should turn around, but we couldn’t decide, and, well, they were government troops.”

I heaved a sigh, remembering the fear of the moment when we realized what we had driven straight into.

“Was that bad?” Jamie asked.

“It wasn’t good,” I said sarcastically. He grimaced. “The soldiers dragged us out of the car — they used my camera bag to pull me out. We were all screaming ‘Journalists! Journalists!’ like it mattered. Then, right then, a group of rebels attacked us. There were bullets flying, and I tried to get down, but one of the soldiers made me drop all my gear and run. We made it behind this small house and the soldiers, just, like, lost it. They pointed their guns at us, and started shouting at us, accusing us of being spies, of being in with the rebels. They made all of us lie on our stomachs, and pulled the strings from my shoes and tied my feet together.

“We thought we were going to die. I was staring down one of the soldiers who was off to the side. I don’t speak much Arabic, but we all knew exactly what they were saying. Finally, one guy said, ‘Shoot them.’”

Jamie’s face went white, and he swallowed hard.

“Obviously they didn’t shoot us,” I said. “Another one of them said we were Americans and they couldn’t shoot us. So they tied up our arms and blindfolded us. I was carried to the back of a truck, and the guy punched me in the face.” I ran my fingers over my right cheekbone, remembering the impact. “But the hit dislodged the blindfold, just a little. Joe was next to me, and I could see blood running down his face. And when we were driving away, I saw a someone on the ground by the car, I think. We think it was Firouz. His body was never recovered.”

I felt tears well up in my eyes, but I shut them hard to keep them back. I felt the warmth of Jamie’s hand on my knee, safe, comforting.

“We were held for a week. It was so very very violent; I mean, beyond words. The groping started immediately — almost every soldier who put his hands on me also grabbed at my butt or my breasts. The first thing I said to Joe in the truck was that I didn’t want to get raped. I pleaded with all of them, and cried. They also beat the shit out of us, so crying wasn’t hard. I tried to make myself look weak, so that they would feel bad and stop.”

“Did it work?” Jamie asked.

“Sometimes. What worked the best was telling them I had a husband, and pleading for his sake. Do you have any idea how fucking infuriating it is to have to beg to not get assaulted on behalf of a man who was screwing at least two of his students and a research librarian on the side?” A wave of rage washed over me, and I felt my skin heat and my cheeks flush. “Those fucks cared more about that man’s ownership rights than they did about me. I wasn’t a human being to them. I was tits and an ass and a cunt.”

“But they didn’t…”

“No, they didn’t. One soldier held me on his lap, and touched me all over, and told me how he was going to kill me. One night we went through a bunch of checkpoints, and each time the soldiers paraded us out, like trophies of war. The crowds hit and spat at us. They went harder on Joe, Sam and José than they did on me. One guy hit Joe in the face with the butt of a gun and broke his nose and gave him a concussion. Sam and José both took some awful beatings. The boys thought it was worse for me, and maybe it was. In some ways, I’d rather take the hits.

“We were handed off to different groups of soldiers, and each group started the violence all over again. They kept interrogating us, asking if we were spies, who we were working for on the rebels side, berating us about our visas and passports. On the sixth day they stuck us on a plane to Tripoli, and there we were turned over to government officials — the Foreign Office and the like, or what was left of it. That’s when the beatings stopped. We were given food, and clean clothes, and a bunch of official explanations. The suits wanted our turnover to be official, whatever that meant, and that held up our release for a few days. But finally, diplomats from Turkey came and got us, and took us over the border to Egypt.”

I let out a long breath, and, my story mostly over, I scooted down the bed and leaned into Jamie. I let his body encompass mine, driving out the cold and terror.

“What happened when you got back?” Jamie asked softly.

“There was some media coverage, but not a ton. It’s not like Americans give a shit about journalists these days, and they really don’t give a shit about anything abroad. The worst of it was some blonde talking head on Fox News saying that we had it coming and spewing some lies about what happened. We all sued and the network settled pretty quickly — we all got a small cut of that, and Reuters ponied up for Joe’s medical expenses and some therapy. And then I got this job and here I am.” I kissed his forearm, which he had snuggled around me.

“But, what about your husband?”

Ah, we had finally gotten to what Jamie really wanted to know. “I haven’t seen him or spoken to him since before I left for the trip. I hid out at Joe’s for a few months, and he helped me move my stuff out when Frank was at a conference. And I lawyered up to end it on paper too.”

What I didn’t say, but felt to the marrow of my bones, was that there was nothing quite like truly believing that you are going to die for six straight days to bring clarity to your life. Tied up and blindfolded and in total terror, I had known that no matter what happened I was getting out of my marriage, be it by the separation of death or divorce.

“You were so brave, Sassenach,” Jamie whispered in my ear as he curled his body behind mine.

“I just endured.” We lay together silently for a while. I tried to sync my breathing to his, feeling his long inhales and exhales on my neck. “How much of this did you know?”

He chuckled. “Some. Geillis likes to talk,” he said, confirming my suspicions about our fair-haired colleague.

“It’s OK,” I said. I turned in his arms so we were face-to-face. “I wanted you to know.” His breath hitched, and my heart started to speed up. I wrapped a leg around his hip, bringing my center into contact with his quickly hardening erection. I rubbed myself against him like a cat against a tree, and he grabbed onto my hips, pushing me closer. “I need you.”

He kissed me sweetly while he somehow produced a condom, and then harder when he pushed into me. I was hot all over, and his fingers pressed into my hip, urging me higher until it was so much that my body shook and spasmed — Jamie following me into bliss with a cry muffled against my lips.

It was dawn and I drifted away into sleep again, leaving Jamie with the keeping of my dreams.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author’s note: I’ve conveniently shifted the timeline, but Claire’s experiences in Libya are extensively based on those of New York Times photographer Lynsey Addario, who was detained in Libya by the forces loyal to now-deposed (and assassinated) Prime Minister Muammar Qaddafi in 2011. Read more about the [capture and detention](https://www.nytimes.com/2011/03/23/world/africa/23times.html) of the four journalists, and about Addario’s [personal experiences](https://cpj.org/blog/2011/04/qa-nyts-lynsey-addario-on-libya-sexual-assault.php).


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